She said it in such a way that he eased the hammer back into place and lowered the gun. For the moment again she was safe. In response to her terrible need, some of her latent Yankee courage came now to aid her. "I don't see what you're making all this rumpus about," she told him in as indifferent a voice as she could command. "I don't see why you should want to kill a friend who might help you—if you're really in need of help."
"I want to get to Partridgeville," he muttered after a moment.
"You're not far from there. How long have you been on the road?"
"None of your business."
"Have you had any food?"
"No."
"If you'll put up that gun and let me get off this snowshoe and pack,
I'll share with you some of the food I have."
"Never you mind what I do with this gun. Go ahead and fix your foot, and let's see what you got for grub." The man resumed his seat.
She twisted up her tangled hair, replaced her toque and untied the dangling snowshoe.
Outside a tree cracked in the frost. He started in hair-trigger fright. Creeping to the window, he peeped cautiously between casing and blanket. Convinced that it was nothing, he returned to his seat by the table.